


Soap Opera

by Taleya



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Good Omens Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23574964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taleya/pseuds/Taleya
Summary: Began as a demented conversation onLower_Tadfield, turned into a fic.  Crowley is rather forcibly introduced to the joys of bathing
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	Soap Opera

Aziraphale had first noticed it in Mesopotamia.

He had been Sent to watch over Noah as he completed his great task; the building of an ark to save the righteous, and seven pairs of every kind of clean animal, one pair of every kind of unclean animal and seven pairs of every kind of bird to keep their various kinds alive throughout the earth.

To be honest he was really rather worried about the whole thing. But he had been Sent and so he Obeyed, fretting endlessly at the workmen, the parade of beasts, and most horrifically, the small crowd of people who had come to watch the spectacle. Surely there had to be a point to this plan, something beyond the scope of his comprehension. The ineffable will of the Lord was not his to question, but really, the _children..._

Even after several weeks surrounded by a curious press of people and a large collection of nervous animals (including several _thunderously_ flatulent camels that had somehow gotten into Emzara's rather inexpertly made goat cheese and were determined to make everyone in the surrounding vicinity pay for it) the stench rolling off Crawley - _Crowley_ \- that day had arrived a good four minutes before the demon himself. To be honest, Aziraphale had chalked it up to the camels until he heard the other call his name.

He really should have said something then, but what was there to say? The flood was coming, and to be honest he was rather hoping the problem would take care of itself. Besides, it seemed so _petty_ in the face of, well, everything that was to come. 1

* * *

The next time they had met had been in the chaos of Babel, a thousand voices screaming in pandemonium, lost to one another, brick and tar scattered across the desert floor. After that had been Sumer, then Media and with each passing empire it seemed the Smell was getting worse. And it was. At this point deserved a proper capitalisation, it had graduated from a mere lower case smell to a capital with full honours, summa cum laude and a little tasselled hat. While Aziraphale himself had admittedly committed the odd faux pas in his first few decades upon the Earth, he had rapidly learned that miracling was well and good, but few things compared to a good soak in a warm pool, not to mention the marvellous opportunities for socialisation and gentle benevolent guidance to lost souls swimming the depths. He'd also developed rather a fondness for unguents, and found it far easier to change his clothing to at least mimic the styles of the time as opposed to projecting a false image thereof. The sand and heat was a bugger on his robes.

Crowley, he realised with a dawning horror, had made no such discovery.

Still forgiveness of sins was divine and it had been unto him to overlook the flaws lest he be ignorant of the beam in his own eye. But there is a finite limit to even the most gracious of Hosts, and Aziraphale found he had finally hit his.

He'd tried polite invitations to the hot springs of a little town called Gadara, with very little end result as the demon had grunted and returned to sunning himself on a nearby rock. He'd also tried less polite means such as pointedly sniffing the air whenever he felt the demon approach, and miracling himself up a small nosegay on occasion. Upon reflection he really should not have been surprised that the results were far less than he desired, given it was the foul2 creature's purpose to delight in torment.

But really, there was no _excuse_ for it. No reason for the robes to be so tattered and torn, no reason for the face to be so bemarked with soot that his branding of hell was lost in the mess. Crowley's hair was absolutely ridiculous, matted and knotted by this point, the once jaunty decorative braiding lost in a sea of grease and dirt. Aziraphale had seen sheep's behinds in a similar state and the poor things seemed to suffer dreadfully for it so he could only imagine the torment lurking behind those pale yellow eyes.

That settled it. Something had to be done. He was an Angel after all, tasked to tend to even the most wretched of creatures and Crowley certainly applied at this juncture. It was positively his duty to extend the hand of mercy, to kneel and wash the hands and feet and hair and everything else, even of thy enemies, and the hell's representative adversary on Earth certainly counted on that front.

If nothing else at this point it was a public service.

To thwart a wile one had to be vigilant and to hold great care. To this end Aziraphale had procured himself a pitcher, a large tub, several linen cloths and a large, flat cake of soap3 that smelled delightfully of jasmine. He'd also rather prudently found a cave with a single entrance and exit and a large boulder that could be fitted over said entrance-and-exit if need be.

Just because you're an angel doesn't mean you have to be a fool.

* * *

Crowley for his part, was blindly oblivious to the looming ablution. He had far more pressing things on his mind.

The problem with starting your career on a high note is that your superiors expect you to consistently maintain that level of performance. It's an exceedingly unreasonable expectation, and it got a lot worse when your boss was literally satan. Getting the entirety of humanity banished from god's grace was one hell of a power move, but there was only a finite number of times you could do it4

The problem was the buggers were getting too clever by half. It used to be easier in the old days. A whisper in the ear of a hungry woman, a precision strike of a metaphorical flint under rage-filled kindling, or even a quick shout of "Hey, your dad's got his balls out!5" and they were practically falling over themselves to make life worse for each other

But now....now it seemed they were getting wise to him. He was having to put in _effort_. He disliked effort. They turned away without even seeing him, cringed from his words, wrinkled their noses and made pious noises, the little pricks.

Nominally he'd be fine with it - once he'd pulled The Big One humanity seemed to be doing quite well on its own - but Downstairs had started to notice, and even worse, they'd read his memo on the concept of quotas.

He could sense the presence of his heavenly counterpart nearby (as always), a pale, almost lemon-shaded aura amongst the morass of humans and meandered towards it. This time of day usually found Aziraphale firmly ensconced in the local _souq_ rather than a cave, so there was bound to be something interesting inside, if it was enough to drag him away from the honeyed crocus. Possibly even a little fomenting 8 to be had

What he hadn't expected was a dithering angel. This was much more promising. No one dithered like Aziraphale, he was a champion ditherer, could have dithered on a professional level if he ever worked out whether or not he wanted to compete.

"Crowley!" the cherubic features light up in a peculiar sort of worried pleasure that stroked a distinctly warm, never-to-be-admitted lick of _something_ deep inside the demon. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Planned, rather."

Crowley's brows rose. This was new. "Thinking of changing sides, are we?" he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

The angel's expression shifted into a prissy _moue_ of distaste. "No. Certainly not. I'm afraid this more concerns _you._ "

"Well I'm not changing." He wasn't. Really. He hadn't mean to Fall but he'd take it if it meant he didn't have to sit through another bloody choir of the hallelujah chorus. Hell may have been a stinking cesspit but at least they could sing in more than three keys, not to mention the killer bass section.6

"Yes, I'm afraid that's rather the problem," Aziraphale was muttering.

That was it. Crowley officially had No Idea where this was going. "You what?"

"Your **clothes** Crowley. You haven't changed them," he was flustered and clearly working up to something, hands clinging to and writhing against each other in full flust so the demon sat back and let him at it with an expression rather akin to a small child watching the Catherine wheel **really** get going. Entertainment on this level was hard to come by. "-and your _hair_ oh it's _dreadful_ there's simply no excuse for this sort of thing and I'm afraid there's simply no other way to put it Crowley: you're beginning to smell"

"Smell?"

"Yes". Aziraphale couldn't meet his eyes. "Smell."

"Smell?" Crowley moved closer and Aziraphale frantically miracled away the sinuses he didn't actually need in sheer panicked self defence. "I don't _smell_. " A tongue flicked out, scenting the air. " _You_ smell. You smell like divine insufferability and....myrrh?"

Aziraphale blushed. "It's a perfectly reasonable scent to wear."

"It's expensive, is what it is," Crowley grinned lazily. "Been tempted by the finer things, have we?"

Aziraphale pursed his lips in annoyance. "We are not discussing _me_ here, Crawley- "

"- Crowley - "

"- we are discussing _you_. And the frankly horrid stench you are emanating."

"Oh it's a _stench_ now, is it? What happened to all that palaver about loving thy neighbour even though he offends thee, _angel_?"

"I'm so glad you mentioned that, because I am," Aziraphale stepped to one side and extended and arm, revealing the tub in all its gently-scented steaming glory. "Behold."

Crowley gave him a flat-headed stare. "No."

" I promise you it's ever so lovely." the flust had turned to ingratiation, and he had to admit, it was pretty hard to beat. "I've kept it nice and warm and look there's even a cushion for your -"

"I'm leaving." the demon spun on his heel and headed for the exit only to find that somehow the bloody angel had gotten around and was now brandishing a washcloth at him.

"I'm afraid this really isn't negotiable, my dear."

" _My dear?_ " Crowley really was rather intrigued truth be told. As an inveterate lover of heat the steam from the tub looked rather promising and he had been entertaining several private thoughts he would never admit about how possibly the angel had a point and the subject of his complaints may possibly have been responsible for the reduced efficacy of his attempted temptations but there was certainly no way he was going to admit it, and there was _definitely_ no way he was going to submit to a somewhat pudgy heavenly dictator brandishing a cake of cheap soap. 7

"It's not a threat it's simple statement of fact." Aziraphale pulled himself up into what he imagined was a commanding stance. "This Shall Be."

Far from impressed, or possibly even faintly cowered as a demon in the face of the almighty Crowley looked rather nonplussed. "What is that. What is that with your face. Are you trying to be stern? You are, you're trying to be stern. It's not working, doesn't suit you in the slightest. "

Aziraphale deflated somewhat miserably. "Crowley, I'm trying to _help_ you."

" With water? I've seen what your lot do with that. No thank you. Nice offer, moving along." During his patter he'd been trying to surreptitiously sneak past the angel, who had matched him step for step until they were doing something resembling a drunken waltz across the rocky floor.

"Look, I really think you should get into the tub and let -"

"Make me!"

"I will if I have to!" and to his astonishment the angel was _grabbing_ him, actually laying hands upon his person and dragging him towards the tub. He was so offended by the sheer audacity that they'd made it a good four feet before he thought to react.

"Don't _manhandle_ me you ethereal nincompoop!"

"I promise you Crowley I am doing this for your own good!"

"I don't _have_ good, I'm a sssodding demon!"

"And there's no cause for that sort of language!" Aziraphale was in somewhat of a quandary. While it was clear that Crowley needed to be out of those stinking robes (which he was quite sure were not only responsible for the majority of the stench, but also harvesting _mites_ ) it seemed rather poor form to simply use his powers to miracle them away from the other being without permission. Which meant physically stripping the demon of them; problematic in and of itself, but far less of a violation to a celestial being.

Of course there was always the option of tipping him headfirst into the tub, clothes and all, but the robes **would** need to come off sooner or later, and Aziraphale had learned from hard experience whilst fumbling through those early days that dry clothing was far easier to remove than wet. And so he qaundered.

Crowley on his end had had enough of this ridiculousness and while the greater weight advantage and lower centre of balance meant the angel had the upper hand, Crowley had several aces up his sleeve, one of which was Optional Extra package on his corporeal form and simply changed, which rather took care of Aziraphale's impending garment problem, but created a new one as he was left clutching a bundle of noisome cloth while Crowley slithered out the other end.

  
With a jubilant hiss the serpent snapped himself loose and furiously wiggled for the exit.

 ** _  
frrrrrrrrrreeeeeedom_**!  
  
"NO!" a plump hand seized his tail and _pulled_ and Crowley found himself rapidly skidding backwards. He reared up in response and twisted to face the angel, fangs bared menacingly

"I'll bite you."

"No you won't."

"I will. I'll bite you _so_ _hard -_ "

"Stop this, Crowley! Stop this at once!" Aziraphale resisted the urge to give the snake a good solid whipcrack and instead took a deep breath, pulling upon every last reserve of his benevolent and eternal Grace. " _Please_."

Crowley hadn't heard that word aimed towards himself in such soft, honest tones for a very long time. It was enough to give him a serious moment of pause. That moment in turn gave Aziraphale enough time to pivot on a heel and dump him straight into the tub

* * *

Foam exploded across the cave, powered by the clash of angelic Will and the frantic gyrations of an extremely large snake with a penchant for amateur dramatics

" _Treacheryyyy!_ " Having failed on fronts of negation, intimidation and physical confrontation, Crowley went for the angel's soft streak, which was wider than the trail left by a stampede of diarrheic camels.9 There was weeping. There was wailing. There was gnashing of teeth. There was a rather regrettable inhalation of froth, followed by frantic sputtering and a few well-meaning thumps on what would have been his back if he'd stopped thrashing around long enough to know which way was up. He howled in anguish, torment, and four different octaves at once.

Aziraphale was having none of it. Although his Will had rather distressingly begun to waver of late in the face of honeyed crickets and small, round cakes he was still a Principality of old and determined to stop this nonsense once and for all. Keeping one hand on the flailing form he snatched up a cloth and the soap, commencing a furious lathering. "My dear fellow, this is happening whether you like it or not!"

" _ASSASSSSSSIN!_ " the diamond-shaped head was plunged under the foam only to appear at the other end of the snake, yowling and writhing. " _UsssSURPER!_ "

"Honesty Crowley I'm just trying to -" suds flopped across the floor of the cave as a tail slapped him in the side of the head.

" _Dessspoiler! Terrorisssst!_ "

"Is this a list of complaints or are you just bragging?"

" _ **Pederast!**_ " the word descended into garbled nonsense, another tidal wave cascading over the rocks as he was firmly grasped and dunked wholesale. " _gyaaaaahh I'm melting I'm meltingggggggggg_ "

"That is _enough_ , Foul One." Aziraphale replaced the already-putrid water with a thought and kept going. Both the sleeves and the hem of his robe were already a sodden grey mess and he was fairly certain he hadn't even made it through the first layer of grime. He was beginning to worry he had rather underestimated the amount of soap required. On the bright side, the furious agitation seemed to have a rather cleansing effect on its own as the greasy coils thrashed about under the water.

To call this no easy task would be an understatement rather akin to Job's Bad Day, but the Angel's will was Mighty and he persevered against his foe. "Honestly Crowley if you keep thrashing like this you'll only discorporate yourself." The serpent sucked in a vicious mouthful of soap and gobbed it him10 in response, but he sighed and forbore. The path to virtue was strewn with thorns, after all. And apparently hissing.

Eventually Crowley begun to still under his furious scrubbing, the dramatic flailing dying down to pathetic spasms and the occasional whine as he tired himself, and by the third water change laid quiescent under the angels' ministrations, tongue flicking sullenly.

It was really rather pleasant now the screaming and thrashing had died down. Almost serene. Peacemaking. The susurration of the soap on the cloth, the glide of lather against scales, slick and warm, shining under the water. Aziraphale let himself dwell in the motions, the soft mindlessness of repetition and cooed gently in pleasure to see the return of dark-red patterning on Crowley's underbelly, following them with his hand. "Oh there you are, you lovely things," he murmured thoughtlessly.

The snake glared, a mousse of soapsuds crowning its head. "This is perfidy," it informed him. "You know that, right?"

"Oh for heaven's sake," Aziraphale rolled his eyes, working away at the scales under his throat. "This is anointing at best."

"Perfidy." His head bobbed up and down as the angel scrubbed behind his ears, tutting at the dirt there. "You've started a war."

"Yes, Crowley," said Aziraphale

"Not just any war, no this is it," he let himself be draped over a broad shoulder while the cloth scrubbed at his underbelly. "This is the big one."

"Yes, Crowley," said Aziraphale

"Nations crushed under heel, masses of humans heaving and suffering. Lamentation of women." He slid back into the tub and chased an errant soap bubble with his tail, popping it with an unnecessarily vicious jab. "All your fault."

"Yes, Crowley," said Aziraphale

"Fire. Flood. Famine. Rivers of.." he belched suddenly and they both watched fascinated as a rainbow sphere spiralled towards the ceiling. "..soap."

" _Yes_ , Crowley."

"Are you _patronising_ me?"

"I was wondering when you'd notice." Aziraphale shook the water primly from his hands and went in search of oil. "Change please, I need get at that hair of yours."

He was taking something of a risk, leaving the demon unattended but after the first thousand years he considered himself enough a judge of character to deem Crowley suppressed enough at this point not to go tearing bare-arsed across the desert. And indeed, when he returned to the tub he was greeted with a naked human form, scowling under a sodden mop of hair.

"Look at this. I can't believe you've done this. I'm _pink_. I'm not supposed to be _pink_. It took me ages to develop that patina."

"That's not something to be proud of!" Upending the bottle, he tipped the entire contents on top of Crowley's head. "I know you're not stupid. I have no idea why you let yourself get into this state. There was no cause for all that splashing and carrying on like a- a pork chop in a synagogue, and oh, will you _look_ at this, there's water _everywhere._ "

" _Pork chop in a synagogue?_ " Crowley kicked a fresh wave across the floor. "I was ambushed! Asssaulted!"

"You were being overly dramatic. As usual." Drat. He'd forgotten the brush. Oh well, nothing for it then. Screwing his courage to the slightly greasy sticking place he carefully worked his fingers as deep into the mess of hair as he dared. The oil seemed to be doing the trick, softening the matted pelt and he gently encouraged it a little further. "Regardless, I'm glad you've decided to cooperate."

Now _that_ was the sort of talk that could **really** get someone into trouble. "I'm not cooperating." Crowley sank further into the tub, a droplet of oil chasing past his collarbone. "I'm being held against my will. This is a hostage situation. A basting. You're basting me with fat. Are you going to eat me?"

"They're called _unguents,_ " the sanctimonious little shit trilled. "Learn the word. This one is myrtle."

 _nyehgyeah meyeayea myrtle_ Crowley mocked under the curtain of hair, but without much rancour. This was all starting to feel distressingly pleasant. Strong fingers had made their way to the base of his scalp and were working firmly through the sandy grime therein, then up to the crown. He could feel the giant knot at the back of his head loosening, slipping away piece by piece. It had been ages since he'd felt the simple pleasure of being _touched_ , let alone preened. He hadn't had a good preen in centuries.

A contented hiss rumbled in his chest and he ruthlessly quashed it. There were advantages to this bathing lark, he had to admit. And he was fairly certain he could swing this to his advantage. Pride was a big one. Oooh and sloth. He could definitely pass this off as sloth. Hedonism? Was that a sin? Didn't matter, he could make it one. Could provoke a little envy too, if he played it right and ever managed to get a damned handle on human attraction. And that usually lead to anger, so that was three of the big ones right there and he could bullshit his way through the rest. Downstairs wouldn't give him too much trouble, they were still trying to get to grips with the invention of the wheel.

Lost in his thoughts he drifted for a while until there was a tap on his shoulder. "All done!"

The angel was standing by in attendance with a towel and an expectant air and yeah ok, no just no. Crowley may have been coming around to this whole bathing thing, especially the whole lack of fleas but there were limits. A snap of the fingers with more force than was necessary and the job was done. "Where are my clothes."

"Gone, I'm afraid" Aziraphale had actually kicked them quietly behind himself during the perfidy diatribe and had hastily vanished them to parts unknown.11 Charity in service to the wretched may have been the truest display of Divine love but eventually even the deepest cup ranneth out. "But I did get you these..."

Somewhere deep in the depths of Crowley judges grudgingly held up signs of approval as he stared at the proffered bundle. Ashes and sacked cloth may have been _de rigueur_ downstairs but they definitely didn't compare to fine woven cotton, black as a raven's wings and soft as sin. And oh, the _feel_ against his freshly cleaned and heated skin. He loved it. And he was never going to admit it.

"Perfidy, assault _and_ theft. Are you sure you're not working for my lot?" Crowley tried a little stare, just to get his hand in. It was unnerving the way Aziraphale kept _beaming_ at him at him in evident approval and was he oh bloody hell he was actually _wiggling_ a little in self-satisfaction. It needed to be crushed. He was the injured party here. A travesty had occurred. He had been violated with bath salts. And not in the way Hell usually approved of.

An awkward pause hung in the air, then got bored and climbed down, poking through the discarded cleaning supplies for something to do. Stupid place for a stare. He should have dramatically stormed out or set the place on fire, now the whole balance of power was shifting to the wrong place.

"Latest fashion, or so they tell me," ok maybe not so stupid, the fluster was back as Aziraphale rushed to fill the silence. Crowley preferred fluster, he knew where he was with fluster. Nervous hands ran down his non-existent lapels, picking at non-existence dust. "'Clothéd in rainments fine'. "

"I won't forget this." It was phrased as gratitude but sounded like a threat. Barely a threat. A portentte.

"I'm rather counting on it, Crowley. I hope we won't have to do this again."

"Can I go? Am I allowed to leave? There is no further basting to be had? No ceremonial drowning?" he asked nastily, but his heart really wasn't in it. He had to admit, the robes really were rather fine and the distinct lack of smell was growing on him. Disgustingly cherubic features were looking at him expectantly. "What."

"You know, a thank you is usually customary after this sort of thing." That wasn't a hint, that was a boulder dropped from a very great height.

"Oh, well then _thank_ you for assaulting me O _gracious_ host I am but a _poor_ wretch so _honoured_ by your-"

"You know Crowley, sarcasm really is the lowest form of-"

"Don't push it."

"Right. Sorry." To his credit the angel looked somewhat shamed for a whole five seconds before turning back to smug self-satisfaction. "Given that you're 'dressed for the occasion', join me at the _souq_ for a spot of lunch?"

The words _I don't eat_ sat at the back of Crowley's throat, hesitated, then retreated waving a small white flag in the face of all that dreadfully open guilelessness and the possibility of public adoration. "Sure," he shrugged. "Yeah. Ok."

And no matter what that lying, perfidious thieving angel said, Crowley definitely wasn't responsible for that braying ass getting into a barrel of Zekiel's finest and kicking over an entire lamp-seller's stall, or the ensuing tidal wave of oil that turned the entire main drag of Urusalim into the worlds first slip 'n slide. And no matter what the foul fiend claimed, Aziraphale was definitely not suppressing a smile at its drunken attempts to eat figs afterwards. But the wine really was rather splendid, and if on their next meeting Crowley happened to show up immaculately groomed and wreathed in the most expensive of perfumes, hair coiffed to perfection, well at least the angel had the grace not to mention it.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> 1What he hadn't known at the time was that Crowley had precisely zero intentions of being caught in a literal monsoon of divine and therefore potentially holy water and had miracled himself away into the hold with the other serpents. Forty days and forty nights is a bloody long time, especially when you have to spend it in a damp hold dodging the inevitable end result of cramming several thousand terrified animals in a small space together, random leaks _and_ the amorous attentions of a distressingly persistent adder. And then the camels had started up again. Crowley had, in fact, come out smelling worse than when he went in. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2 Literally at this point[ return to text ]
> 
> 3 Actually true. Oldest known soap recipe dates from around 3rd millennium BCE. Coincidentally the time period of the biblical flood as depicted in the televised series. Make of that what you will. [ return to text ]
> 
> 4 Once, as it turns out [ return to text ]
> 
> 5 In his defence Noah had had a Very Long Week and while he had intended on blowing off some steam with an epic rager, he had rather miscalculated the strength of the wine. And the location of his pants. [ return to text ]
> 
> 6literally. You didn't want to be near Dagon when he got his hands on a paddle.[ return to text ]
> 
> 7 It was not cheap. It was in fact quite expensive. Aziraphale had fretted for _hours_ , sniffing and dithering over everything available in the bazaar stall until the owner had come to the conclusion that he was clearly an extremely well-heeled if somewhat peculiar merchant and had tried to set him up with her son, who still had all his own teeth and most definitely knew the value of a good lathering. [ return to text ]
> 
> 8 the author would like to take the opportunity to point out she is really rather proud of this one. Obscenely so. There was cackling. [ return to text ]
> 
> 9 A comparison he could not only personally vouch for on both fronts, but empirically prove, given enough camels and a really big stick [ return to text ] 
> 
> 10 And immediately regretted it. While the unguents and lotions of antiquity might smell quite nice dabbed behind the ankles, ears, or indeed other places while your ankles were behind your ears, they were comprised chiefly of fats boiled with ashes, quite often with a zesty splash of urine from dubious origins for that ultra-fresh bleaching effect. The end result tended to taste like the smell of wet ass. And not the good kind. Word to the wise, should you ever find yourself requiring a bath in biblical times  [ return to text ] 
> 
> 11 Which turned out in fact to be a Bedouin tent some miles away. And really, Yevshahim may have been a vicious iron-age warlord on the verge of a reign of terror that would soak the ground in the blood of innocents for a thousand years but no one deserved that sort of thing landing on their head mid-coitus. It is worth noting however that his inability to remove the resulting miasma _did_ lead to his armies abandoning him, and eventually he gave up his dreams of conquest to become a rather respectable pig farmer. The Lord works in mysterious ways [ return to text ] 


End file.
